


The Hawkeye Initiative

by chucksauce



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Crack, M/M, Oral Sex, PWP, The Hawkeye Initiative, blowjob, mostly just pwp, porn without plot/plot what plot, seduction via awkward stretching, this is easily the silliest thing I have written this week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-12
Updated: 2013-06-12
Packaged: 2017-12-14 17:30:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/839499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucksauce/pseuds/chucksauce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oh, he’d show Coulson a thing or two about <i>initiative.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Hawkeye Initiative

**Author's Note:**

  * For [paunfar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/paunfar/gifts).



> This was spawned from my own love of the oft-mentioned tag, as well as a prompt from [paunfar](http://archiveofourown.org/users/paunfar/pseuds/paunfar) who cheered me up one day, and then when I asked what sort of fic could work best as a thank-you gift, this was the response: "You know what ships I like. Go crazy! However the spirit moves you."
> 
> Paunfar, I dunno if this is what you had in mind, but I was cackling the whole time I wrote it. So. Thank you for that.

 

 

“So I’m good to go?” Clint asked the medic nearby, who was leaned over her clipboard.

“All set. We’ll send the others along when we’ve done enough to please the insurance.”

Clint grunted his thanks and backed away from the ambulance, glancing over to see Stark right as he was gearing up to do his _thing_ \--and already Pepper was blinking rapidly and about to draw a breath to argue with him over the importance of visiting a medic after _a she-dragon tried to roast him_.

Still, he was better off than the Big Guy, who had tried to catch hold of the mother dragon’s tail as she swung it at him like a whip--when he gripped it, several scales detatched and embedded him his palms, and apparently those things were coated in some psychoactive poison. Currently he was spread-eagle on the concrete, fluxuating somewhere between the Hulk and Bruce Banner, and mumbling incoherently about goldfish.

Clint did _not_ envy him.

Across the street he could hear Thor holding court, regaling anyone who’d listen with good-natured stories about the legendary beasts. 

Clint still couldn’t say that it had been a rough day, even after the team had to fight off an enraged mother-dragon that was bent and bound on leveling the city because a helicopter _happened_ to land on the pad she’d chosen as a nest. All things told? He’d really only barked out coordinates from a taller building and let the rest of the team coerce the raging creature to a more secure eyrie. Beyond that, it was up to the suits to file the paperwork and set up a team to ensure she didn’t get _too_ pillage-y when it came time to feed her young.

So as the rest of the team got thoroughly checked over for burns, abrasions, and the odd psychoactive tail-scale, Clint’s examination was done before he had time to turn around three times; he was on his bike and zipping through the now-calm city even before Stark had the chance to get snarky enough to piss off the medics.

 

This made for an unusually quiet Stark Tower when he got back; in fact, of the rooms allocated to the team, only one was inhabited when he returned. He found Coulson frowning at his laptop screen and biting his lip when he entered the common area. That itself was slightly odd--Coulson wasn’t wearing his usual tightly-buttoned down suit, and he wasn’t still out on site delegating the cleanup-crew’s responsibilities. He was in a neat polo and khakis, and he looked--well, he looked like he was _relaxed._ It suited him.

Clint could tell when he entered Coulson’s periphery, because the guy actually _jumped,_ like he’d been startled.

 _Him? Startled?_ Clint thought drily. This was the same stone-cold agent he’d seen face down Nick Fury during a tirade and not bat a lash.

“Back so soon?” Coulson asked, his eyes wide, as he snapped his laptop screen down.

“I was just running visual, so I got out easy. The others should be back soon, though.”

Coulson nodded, swallowed thickly, opened his mouth to say something, and then looked away. Clint knew the lighting was weird in half the fully-automated rooms here in the tower, but it almost looked like Coulson was _blushing_.

 

Ah, well then. It didn’t take an astrophysicist to figure out what had probably gotten Coulson’s goat, then. All alone with a laptop, and expecting no one to be home? Clint suppressed a knowing smile.

 

“What _are_ you doing here, anyhow?” he asked instead, dropping his case beside the doorway. “Why aren’t you out dealing with the dragon?”

 

“Dinner?” Coulson answered in a rush. He cleared his throat. “Eh--I’m off the clock right now. About to make some dinner. Want some?” This time his voice was steadier.

Clint nodded once, and shrugged. He threw a lazy salute before picking up his case to cross through toward his room. “Gonna get changed. Hit the showers.”

He could’ve sworn he’d heard Coulson _squeak_ when he mentioned showers. If he didn’t know any better, Clint would’ve wondered if _he’d_ gotten stuck with one of those dragon-scales.

 

 

All through dinner, Clint found his thoughts wandering down the table to Agent Coulson, the image of the always-collected man just sitting on the couch, biting his lip as he scrolled through _whatever it was_ he’d been enjoying on his laptop before being intruded upon. From there it was all too easy to imagine the way the scene might have progressed, if Clint hadn’t come barging in on him.

He could just imagine Coulson slouching down in the over-stuffed couch, getting comfortable, his knees parting as he slid the laptop down _just enough_ to undo his khakis. He’d probably get so worked up by whatever it was he was looking at, he wouldn’t think twice before slipping his hand beneath the band of his ever-practical boxer-briefs-- 

\--Clint was jarred from his reverie when Natasha not-so-subtly elbowed him while passing a dish over to him. He blinked several times, and accepted the mashed potatoes.

“Where are you, tonight?” she whispered from the side of her mouth, her face otherwise impassive.

Clint just flashed her his easy grin. “Just replaying the day,” he answered cryptically.

She afforded him a skeptical eyebrow-raise but said nothing, and turned back toward the conversation the rest of the table was engaged in.

 

 

It wasn’t until two days later that Clint found the break he needed in the mystery. The group had been scattered around the city, either running SHIELD’s errands or catching up on their regular, day-to-day life (amazingly, there had been no further dragon disturbances or mutant fish or sentient beings from another dimension to wreak any havoc since the helicopter/nest incident). Clint had just gotten back from his jog around the park nearby, and was trudging down the hall with the well-used gait of someone who’s been pleasantly exercised when he saw that Coulson’s door wasn’t entirely shut.

Oh, this was too good a windfall to pass up--nobody as fastidious as Coulson would screw up by nearly jerking off on the common room couch and then forget to make absolutely _certain_ his door wasn’t locked. So Clint grinned and thanked the only god he happened to know personally, and cracked it open just a peek.

He found the room was empty, the light off. Coulson’s bedroom was as tidy as he would have expected: his bed folded with miltary precision, his desk and shelves utterly devoid of clutter, save what was necessary to the job and an odd personal item or two. And there, in the center of that clutter-free desk, was his laptop, the screen closed and just begging to be opened. Clint didn’t hesitate before licking his lips, plopping down into the adjacent desk chair, and trying his luck.

 

A handful of attempts later, he hit the right combination to get through the password-protected sleep-mode, and he quickly pulled up the web browser. _What in the world would get a guy like that worked up?_ he wondered as he pulled up the browser history.

Agent Phil Coulson--he didn’t strike Clint as gay, or straight, or anything in between, really. He was perfectly behaved anytime Clint had seen him, never insinuating himself into anyone’s personal space, or filling awkward silences with meaningless stories about his conquests. He was a self-contained entity, and entirely in-control.

That’s what made the previous run-in so interesting, if Clint really wanted to stop and think about it. He’d almost caught the man with his guard (and almost possibly pants) down. And that was just the kind of problem Clint _liked_ to delve into. It suddenly seemed incredibly important to figure out what made a man like Agent Phil Coulson _tick_.

He scrolled through the history log until he came to the date two days previous, around the time he’d gotten to the Tower from the she-dragon fiasco. There were several URLs listed. Some blog service, it seemed. Clint took a deep breath, and clicked on the latest-listed URL from that site.

A medium-blue screen loaded, as well as the site’s header and toolbar, and then the search window at the top. A white rectangle popped up in the middle of the screen, and it seemed to be a photo entry, though the image hadn’t loaded yet. But that wasn’t what caught his attention:  no, his attention was secured right in the small rectangular search bar, which had a little option marked ‘tracking’. The bar itself simply said, [#the hawkeye initiative](http://www.tumblr.com/tagged/the+hawkeye+initiative).

But before he could wonder any further, the photos began to load. It was enough to make Clint’s _year._

So was this it, then? A legion of fangirls posting their sketches of him in skimpy clothes, in impossible and emasculating positions? Admittedly, several of the poses were physically impossible for 99% of the human race, and it did seem that these artists were rather generous with a few of his _assets_ , but that seemed to be the game. Overall, Clint thought the whole idea was hilarious. And then a different thought occurred to him, one closer to his original investigation: was _this_ what Coulson had been scrolling through, biting his lip? 

Clint clicked out of the window, and powered the laptop down before slipping out of the room entirely, his brain kicking into fifth gear. 

 _There’s no way,_ Clint thought. _No way in hell._ But he found himself grinning, and his step held more of a bounce as he made his way down the hall to his room. _Hawkeye Initiative, huh?_  

Oh, he’d show Coulson a thing or two about _initiative._

 

  

His first opportunity came while they were doing basic training exercises a few days later at a SHIELD-operated gym. He and Natasha were sparring when he heard the heavy double-doors open, and saw Coulson slink in from the corner of his eye. Of course Natasha noticed his divided attention and Clint was kicked in the side of the head for his trouble.

When Coulson held up his hand to signal a break, Natasha helped him up and he shook his head, thankful for the head-guard. Then she turned to Coulson, who was directly opposite her. Clint turned away, certain he would be seen.

He started subtly enough: a few slow, basic stretches: first his neck muscles (which would otherwise have a nasty crick soon, thanks to the kick to the head), then his arms and back, and then his legs. He let his hips go slack as he did, canting naturally to the side, and suppressed a quiet groan. If he were to actually start groaning he was certain Natasha would never let him hear the end of it.

As it was, he could feel Coulson’s eagle-eyes on his back, ghosting over his skin like the memory of pressure. He allowed the stretch come to its natural conclusion, and then he straightened, reached for his towel and his water bottle, and sauntered off to the locker room.

 

 

Another time, he was at a practice field, bow in hand, when Coulson calmly trailed a ranting Fury. He decided to pull off one last shot--a complete trick-shot--before putting away his bow. So he spun around as he drew an arrow from his quiver. He nocked it, whipping the bow behind him toward the target, took a millisecond to make sure it was headed toward its intended destination. Absolutely aware of the ridiculous contortion of his body, he let the arrow fly. It hit home and he relaxed, loosening the quiver from over his shoulder. He straightened up and then dropped at the waist to retrieve his case, his knees locked so that he bent over with his ass firmly in the air. He put away his bow and his arrows, and he could all-but feel Coulson’s eyes raking him over.

By the time Fury and Coulson closed the last few yards between them and Clint, Fury’s eyebrows were well above his lack of hairline. Coulson leveled a stare at him, and pressed his lips together silently from behind Fury’s shoulder, unwilling to look away from Clint. Clint swallowed, feeling his heart kick up a notch--was Coulson catching on to his little game?

“Are you even pre _tending_ to pay attention?” Fury snapped, mid-sentence, and Clint’s attention whipped to him.

“I’m pretending to now, sir,” he replied, flashing his easy smile, resolute to appear wholly invested in whatever the hell Fury was ranting about now. He hoped it wasn’t too obvious his mind was otherwise occupied.

The way Coulson had fearlessly locked eyes with him, the way Clint’s back had stretched inward as he had bent over--it was all he could do not to think of Coulson behind him, bending him low over a bed, a table, whatever other waist-height inanimate object he chose. He swallowed hard and pushed the thought away. It wasn’t _entirely_ his fault he couldn’t focus on Fury’s yelling.

 

 

The next day, Clint found himself stretched out on his bed, scrolling through the Hawkeye Initiative tag on his laptop for more inspiration. He had been alternately suppressing his laughter--especially when the artists depicted other Avengers members, [_especially Nick Fury, Iron Man, and Cap A in fucking corsets, God Bless America indeed_](http://i-am-albie.tumblr.com/post/37116678853/so-i-just-had-to-join-in-on-the-hawkeye-initiative)\--and wondering how next to torture the SHIELD agent when knuckles rapped crisply against his door. Three firm taps, and then a shuffle of feet as the knocker shifted their weight.

Clint closed out the window and closed his laptop, resting it on the bed beside him. He didn’t bother getting up. “Come on in.”

The door slid open, and Coulson folded his hands behind his back, assuming a very relaxed parade rest. He cleared his throat.

Clint swallowed, the guilty pleasure of his interrupted train of thought nearly bringing heat to his cheeks. _Be cool, Barton._

“It’s come to my attention,” Coulson began, pausing thoughtfully. Then he smiled his mild-mannered smile and met Clint’s eyes levelly. “It’s come to my attention that you’ve shown a certain amount of… _initiative_ with my personal items, Barton.”

Clint forced himself not to make any sort of face, just to meet that stare, keep his mouth and eyebrows perfectly neutral, and not blink too many times.

“You see, I happened to recognize a few of the stretches I’ve seen you doing recently, but for the life of me, I just couldn’t _tag_ it.”

A giggle lodged itself somewhere in Clint’s chest and almost nearly escaped--but he tried to cover it with a cough. Not that the cough in itself wasn’t a dead giveaway that he knew _exactly_ what the fuck Coulson was talking about.

And he could _see_ that Coulson registered that fact: the corners of his mouth tugged upwards, for about half a nanosecond, before resuming their original position. _He knows that I_ know _he knows,_ Clint thought. _Don’t giggle. Do not fucking giggle._

But then it was like his body decided completely jump off the dignity-preservation track, because all that nervous energy converted itself into a thoroughly distracting surge of heat which proceeded to rocket straight to his groin.

But Coulson continued before he could say anything. “I wondered, was it yoga? Tai chi? But I _knew_ it wasn’t that. And then I checked my computer.

“Did you know I have software enabled that tracks the log-ins to my desktop? It’s fairly handy, for situations such as these. See, I saw that I had _apparently_ logged in a week ago while I _know_ I was doing recon with Agent Hill, which struck me as a bit odd. Another handy bit of information about that software? It also tracks attempts at my password. Call me paranoid, I know.” He pulled his lips into a small, self-effacing smile. “But do you know what I found?”

Here Clint almost groaned, his thoughts racing. If he had this kind of program logging all this information, it probably also recorded the attempted keystrokes, and he’d gotten a bit silly at one point and typed--

“Here, I’ll read it out.” Coulson pulled a slip of paper from his pocket. “One of the password attempts was ‘H-0-T-4-H-4-W-K-3-Y-3.’”

The fact that Clint didn’t wince _should_ have earned him an Oscar. Best acting, right there. He blinked rapidly, as Coulson folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the doorframe. His thoughts spun around quickly, trying to find the best one-liner to break into this monologue. _Care for me to show a little more initiative? No. Sounds like a line in porn. So_ are _you hot for Hawkeye? Oh, god no. Definitely don’t say that. What about--_

“You seem thoughtful,” Coulson prompted after a pregnant silence in which Clint utterly failed at finding the right smart-assed thing to say. “Care to share with the class?”

 _Where the hell is all this coming from?_ Clint wondered. _Since when is Agent Coulson a sassy motherfucker?_ “I-- uh,” he stammered. Stammered. Clint Barton. Stammered.

Coulson raised his eyebrows and smiled pleasantly, and god _damn_ it but Clint could tell how much he was enjoying having found a way to make him speechless. This realization did absolutely nothing to abate the embarrassment he was about to suffer due to the combination of fitted utility pants and what was about to be a seriously noticeable erection.

“Seems weird they’d try my password on your computer,” he finally quipped, a bit lamely.

Coulson stepped forward into the room, and the Clint swallowed as the door clicked into the jamb. “Seems weird they’d go snooping for my recreational internet history in the first place.”

All Clint could think of was his recurring daydream from dinner, the week before: what if he _hadn’t’ve_ interrupted Coulson, there on the couch? It was dizzying to reconcile the image of that man, head lolled back on the couch as he pumped into his fist, with the cool, collected man now crossing his room to stand at the foot of his bed.

“That is, unless it wasn’t _they_ so much as it was _you_ , coming to find out just what kind of things I do to amuse myself.”

Coulson plopped calmly onto the bed, and picked up one of Clint’s bare feet. He pressed his thumb into the arch of Clint’s left foot. Clint could feel the heat from his hands.

“You’d be right,” Clint answers, his voice hitching. “Pretty _damn_ curious, actually.”

Coulson offered him a quick half-smile, working Clint’s foot between his thumbs. “The tag you found was an accident, actually. But seeing you stretch and bend like that?”

The compliment was a lovely bit of ego-stroking that Clint wasn’t about to pass up. “You liked?”

“Who wouldn’t want to see an ass like that? Droves of anonymous online fangirls can’t be wrong.”

At this point Coulson dropped his foot gently back onto the bed and picked up the other, and began massaging.

Clint let his eyes droop shut, enjoying the sensation of muscles he barely paid attention to being relaxed in who _knew_ how long. “Damn, Coulson, I didn’t peg you for a foot-massaging kind of guy.”

Clint could hear him chuckle softly to himself, a quick _whuff_ of breath. “Call me Phil. And you haven’t actually pegged me, yet.”

“Yet?”

“We’re getting there.”

“I’d have figured your plans were a bit different, with all that not-yoga you were enjoying,” Clint shot back, grinning even as he wiggled down flat, pushing his feet further into Phil’s lap.

“Six of one, half a dozen of the other,” Phil answered, and the absolute _nonchalance_ with which he said it was really starting to get to Clint all kinds of bothered. “Any preferences?”

 _Any way you’ll have me?_ Clint thought, but answered, “Same.” He opened his eyes, and sat up. He bent his knees and scooted forward, and Phil’s fingers slowed. With a knowing smirk, Phil met his eyes, and closed the gap between them.

The kiss wasn’t hesitant, nor was it deep and greedy--it was certain, unhurried. Phil slotted his lip below Clint’s, drawing it between his teeth. Clint hummed appreciatively and felt Phil’s fingertips slip beneath the hem of his t-shirt, grazing his sides. Then Phil tugged the fabric upward, and Clint slipped free, going immediately after the buttons on Phil’s shirt. Phil had the courtesy to loosen his tie, pulling it over his head before shucking his blazer, tossing them to the floor as Clint finished the last of the buttons. He allowed Clint to push the shirt off his shouldlers, his palms sliding down his arms as he pushed the shirt off. Now equally bare from the waist up, Clint kissed him again, slipping his tongue out to dart between Phil’s lips, which tasted faintly of coffee, before he shifted to kiss the corner of Phil’s mouth, his jaw. He pulled the agent’s earlobe into his mouth, and earned a soft moan for his trouble.

“Tell me what you want me to do to you first,” Clint whispered, allowing a hand to slip down across the agent’s chest, gravity drawing it down to the tented fabric of Phil’s trousers.

Phil groaned softly, wrapping his fingers around the back of Clint’s neck and into the hair at the nape. “I want you to suck me,” he panted.

Clint suppressed a grin. “Thought you’d never ask,” he murmured.

Then he pushed Phil gently on the shoulder, and dropped to his knees in the floor, positioning himself between the agent’s thighs. When Clint worked open Phil’s belt buckle, the agent hummed in anticipation, raising his hips slightly for Clint to tug his pants and boxer-briefs down. Clint made quick work of the polished dress-shoes, and finished stripping the obviously aroused man stretched across his bed. Then he grabbed said aroused man by the hips and tugged, indicating Phil should slide down to let his hips rest at the edge of the bed.

Beginning at the inside of Phil’s left knee, he trailed teasing kisses along the inner thigh. About halfway up he paused to bite gently, and Phil’s hips twitched. Clint could feel how tense his thighs were, and was delighted to see a small bead of pre-come dribble from the tip of his cock.

And _what_ a gorgeous specimen it was--a little shorter than average, but thick and arching towards his stomach in a way that made Clint’s mouth water. He finished working his way up that pale stretch of thigh, only stopping once to nibble again on the tendon that joined thigh to groin. He licked a wide stripe along the underside of Phil’s cock, his tongue flicking along the frenulum as he neared the top before licking his lips and running them across the head. Watching the ever-composed agent shiver, his breath heavy in his chest, shouldn’t have been so hot, but god it was.

He lowered himself a fraction, allowing the glans to push between his lips, teasing the poor agent until Phil’s hands wandered down and found Clint’s hair again, tightening ever so slightly just to indicate how difficult it was not to fuck his mouth right then and there.

And so Clint obliged, opening his jaw wider to take Phil’s cock halfway, working his tongue along the underside, before coming back up and starting a slow rhythm, working his way deeper with each forward motion. Unfortunately, the angle wasn’t quite right--not for what Clint wanted. And so he slid off slowly, hollowing his cheeks as he came up, before taking Phil completely from his mouth with a wet pop.

“Up, onto the bed,” he said, and when Phil had done so, he climbed onto the bed to settle once more between the agent’s knees. Then he wasted no time before taking that gorgeous cock into his mouth once more, bobbing twice before dropping to bury his nose in the thatch of dark brown curls at the base.

 _“Fuck,”_ Phil grunted, his hips jerking up to push even deeper, the head of his cock brushing _just that little bit_ too far, making Clint gag on it slightly. And even that, that was fucking hot, with the muscles spasming around him, Clint’s tongue working the underside, but he stilled himself, and let Clint set the pace once more. “Sorry,” he murmured.

Clint looked up to him, and hummed his acceptance. The vibrations that went through poor Phil were so good he almost lost control again.

As if sensing Phil’s enthusiasm, Clint picked up the pace now, bobbing at a rhythm that made Phil tighten his fingers in that that messy head of hair, grunting and groaning his approval.

Pretty soon the heat blossomed and unfurled wide, and his thighs and abdomen tightened hard. “Gonna--soon--I’m gonna--”

Clint paused long enough to nod, his flushed lips still wrapped around Phil’s cock, and that was it for Phil. His fisted fingers tightened painfully in Clint’s hair, one final thrust as he felt himself come in that sarcastic mouth.

Clint stilled, waiting through the shockwaves as Phil’s cock spasmed several times, the slightly bitter, briny taste flooding his mouth, making his own needs painfully more demanding. When Phil went limp, Clint carefully tightened his lips around the shaft as he pulled up and off, unwilling to spill a drop.

Phil opened his eyes long enough to see Clint swallow carefully and lick his lips. “You might have me pegged after all,” he said rather breathlessly, grinning at the debauched archer.

Clint flashed him a mischievous smile before straightening and pushing his pajama pants down, slipping himself free. When Phil sat up to offer a hand, Clint palmed himself and shook his head. “It’s not gonna take me long--just lay back and enjoy the show.”

The look that crept across Phil’s face then was reminiscent of Christmas and his birthday all rolled into one, and Clint scooted closer on his knees, working his own cock over with frantic jerks.

Before he could have counted to ten--though he was _definitely_ too preoccupied to be doing _any_ counting--Clint felt his balls draw tight, and he gave himself up to the wave of pleasure that washed over him, shooting ropes right across the slack-limbed agent’s chest.

 _“Seriously_ have me pegged,” Phil amended.

Clint laughed then, as the bliss began ebbing away, and he dropped to stretch out beside his bedmate, propping his head on his fist. “Thank god for initiative, huh?”

**Author's Note:**

> The linked picture comes from [i-am-albie.tumblr.com](http://i-am-albie.tumblr.com), with permission from the artist for the link. (Thank you!)
> 
> # # # # #
> 
>   
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